


No Regrets

by plumeria47



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cokeworth, HP: EWE, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Severus Snape's Death, Spinner's End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After agreeing to clear out Snape's house on Spinner's End, Harry decides to ask Draco Malfoy to tag along.  He didn't realize how much Draco would help him with this task ... nor what effect Draco's presence would have on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> For [Prompt #35](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oKxFrF86d2c3FuVesbbG1NW8mLM0kphzpOwJLy225kY/edit):
> 
> Following Snape's death, and with Lucius and Narcissa in Azkaban/house arrest, it falls to Malfoy to go to Snape's house in Cokeworth and sort through his belongings. Somehow, he ends up with a Harry in tow.
> 
> Additions: Harry newly liking both Snape and Malfoy since the end of the war, and wanting to get to know them both a little better. Harry finding some stuff about his mum/her childhood/her growing up with Snape? Malfoy admiring Snape, but not wanting to end up a lonely bitter man like he was?
> 
> Prompter, I've switched around some ideas from the original concept, but I hope you find I've kept the spirit of the thing. Many MANY thanks to the mods for their more-than-generous extensions. Dang kids and their needs, interrupting my writing time! ;-) Also thanks to Liss and Diana for their speedy beta work. All remaining mistakes are my own.

_I'd rather regret the things I've done than regret the things I haven't done._  
Lucille Ball

When Harry decided, rather impulsively, to invite Draco Malfoy along with him to clean out Snape's house, he had no further thought other than the fact that he didn't want to face everything alone. All his life he'd had Ron and Hermione by his side, but he had firmly refused to allow Ron to come along for this, insisting he should be with his family so they could all grieve Fred together. And Hermione needed to get back to Australia, remove the memory modifications on her parents, and spend some well-deserved time with them. They had already given him so much, sacrificed so much, and he could not, in good conscience, allow them to tag along for something that wasn't going to be remotely dangerous. 

And it felt too personal, somehow, to allow outsiders to paw through Snape's belongings, his history. Harry had told Ron and Hermione about the memories Snape had given him as he died, as part of the wider story of what had happened that wonderful, terrible night, but Harry still felt as if Snape belonged to him now. He was still processing a side of Snape he had never known or understood, battling his own yearslong resentment and hatred with the love and devotion and pain he'd seen in the Pensieve. He needed to be alone with those memories. And yet, he did not want to be alone.

It was Professor McGonagall – now Headmistress – who had approached Harry and asked if he would be willing to undertake this task. He had given her a sketchy summary of Snape's memories following Voldemort's demise so that she would understand Snape's role in Dumbledore's death, in being Headmaster, and hold him free from blame. He had not told her everything, of course, but he had left no doubt as to Snape's true loyalty to their side. The adults were still frantically trying to get the castle back in proper repair, and Harry, although doing his best to help, could be far more readily spared than they. He had agreed to McGonagall's request, thinking vaguely of simply needing to pack up Snape's books and potions supplies, shrink them down and bring them back to Hogwarts, perhaps do some cleaning – who knew all the chores he'd done for Aunt Petunia would come in handy? – and toss the rest. But then he realised he would come upon the letter Snape had stolen from Grimmauld Place, and Lily's photo, and who knew what other painful reminders he might stumble upon? The idea of facing it alone felt daunting.

He was still not entirely sure why he had invited Draco Malfoy, of all people, to accompany him; only that he'd passed Malfoy in the corridors, looking rather lost, one time too many. He knew from the papers that the Malfoys were under house arrest as their punishment for being a Death Eater family, while still acknowledging Harry's testimony that Narcissa and Draco had, separately, saved his life. Malfoy had, due to his age, been given the option of what amounted to "Hogwarts arrest" and had, to Harry's mystification, chosen that rather than remain with his parents.

Remembering Malfoy's refusal to identify him at Malfoy Manor, though surely he'd known it was Harry beneath the Stinging Jinx, and remembering the complete terror he'd seen on the normally smug, pale face, Harry wondered what Malfoy was really like these days. It was that curiosity, paired with a ridiculous desire to get Malfoy out of "prison," even temporarily, that brought him back to Professor McGonagall's office with the plea for Malfoy's company on his trip to Cokeworth. She looked at him over the top of her square-rimmed spectacles, not in the way that Dumbledore had, which had always left Harry feeling x-rayed, but long and searchingly nonetheless.

"He is _your_ responsibility, Potter," was all she said, but that was enough.

Malfoy, however, took a little more convincing. "Why?" he asked Harry, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"Because," Harry said, suddenly wishing he'd thought more carefully about how to explain. "I just thought … you might like to come," he finished, somewhat lamely. "You knew Snape, after all, and, well…." _You look lonely,_ he thought, but he knew Malfoy would not respond kindly to such a remark. 

But Malfoy merely thought a moment, and then sighed. "Fine, I'll come along," he said. "Just give me an hour to get my things together."

Thankfully, Harry, too, had little that needed packing; after a year of travel, he was still down to bare essentials. He knew he should go back to Privet Drive for more clothing and other items he could use, now that the Dursleys had returned home, but he was in no hurry to do so; and so, at the appointed time, he met Malfoy in the entrance hall, and together they walked in silence to the gates where they could Disapparate. 

"Have you been to Snape's house before, Potter?" Malfoy asked, abruptly grasping Harry's elbow just as he was about to turn on the spot.

"No," Harry admitted, trying to steady his heartbeat. Adrenaline flooded his system at the unexpected touch, the interruption to his focus on the three D's. "But Professor McGonagall gave me the address, which I told you about," he added, a little defensively. "That's all we need, really."

"But did she know that Snape had enough protective spells on the place that you _can't_ Apparate or Disapparate right to his doorstep, or even to his street corner?" Malfoy asked him. He'd let go of Harry and now stood with his arms crossed, returning Harry's defiance. "The closest you can get is a few blocks down, and then you have to walk the rest of the way."

"Oh," Harry replied. There was nothing more he _could_ say, really, but he hated being made to look like a fool in front of Malfoy. What had he been _thinking,_ asking him along? And yet, Malfoy had just saved him from looking like a bigger fool on the other end. 

Malfoy held out his arm. "I know a good spot in town where they won't notice us just popping out of thin air," he said.

"Fine," Harry sighed. He curled his hand around the offered elbow, remembering all the times he'd done it with Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore, and finding it strange to touch his former enemy like this. But he didn't have much time to dwell on it, for Malfoy was turning on the spot, and he and Harry were instantly pulled into the suffocating black compression.

When Harry could breathe again, he saw they were standing in a narrow lane behind a row of weather-beaten council flats. The smokestacks of an old factory could be seen looming over the rooftops and a muddy-looking river could be glimpsed in the opposite direction, glinting dully in the sunshine. "This way," Malfoy said, striding purposefully down the lane; Harry trotted to keep up. They walked past the flats and into another neighbourhood, this one full of rows of small brick houses. Harry kept looking around, trying to imagine Snape, his mother and Aunt Petunia growing up in such a setting. He knew from Snape's memories that it looked much the same as it had all those years ago – run down and tired-looking, perhaps retaining the feel of the long-gone factory workers as they trudged home at the end of a long day. Still, a few people had obviously tried to make the best of what they had, with tiny but tidy front gardens, the occasional potted flowers on the stoop, washing strung neatly on lines between buildings or in the small back gardens. It didn't seem like much of a place to grow up, but what did he know? Lily and Petunia, at least, had seemed to thrive just fine.

"Why _did_ Snape bring you here?" he asked, following as Malfoy turned a corner.

"It's his family home, and it's where we came to lie low after… you know, the Death Eaters came to Hogwarts," Malfoy murmured. He didn't seem to want to look at Harry.

 _The Death Eaters you let in_ , Harry thought, anger warring with sadness in his chest. He had seen Malfoy's terror at the Manor, remembered his tears in the boys' bathroom at Hogwarts, and knew that Malfoy had not exactly been a willing participant in Voldemort's plans. He was still angry that Malfoy had not stood up, as his father and Sirius and Lupin would have done, made the better choice despite the danger but… he also understood fear. He understood wanting to protect those he loved. 

"How long did you stay with Snape?" he asked, instead of giving voice to any of that.

"A few weeks. Then the Dark Lord made Malfoy Manor his base, and I had…" Malfoy swallowed. "I had to go back. "

Harry could think of nothing to say to that, so he just nodded to show he understood, and they continued on in silence. 

At last Malfoy stopped in front of a nondescript brick house on a street called Spinner's End. Although Harry knew he could have made do with a map and his trusty _Point me!_ spell, he had to concede that it had been a lot easier to simply follow behind Malfoy's cloak and let his mind wander. "After you," Malfoy said, bowing and waving at the door with a flourish.

Harry merely rolled his eyes and performed the unlocking spells he, Ron and Hermione had used on Grimmauld Place the previous summer – had it really only been a year ago? Thankfully, Snape appeared to have used the same security settings as those on the former Order headquarters, for Harry heard various clicks and then the door swung open.

It was dark inside. The house had clearly been built for the Muggle population, for there was an electric switch to Harry's left. But when he pressed it, nothing happened. He wasn't surprised – why would Snape have paid for electricity he had no need for? Instead, he felt a small _whoosh_ rushing from behind him, and then all the candles lit simultaneously, revealing a tiny sitting room.

"Sorry, it's sort of an automatic response for me," Malfoy said in answer to Harry's startled expression; in his right hand dangled the now-familiar hawthorn wand. 

Harry tamped down an urge to ask to hold it again, to see if it still felt comfortable to him now that it had gone back to its rightful owner. Instead, he turned back to the sitting room and together they entered Snape's house. Malfoy led the way across the room and through two separate hidden doorways in the bookcases in order to show Harry the kitchen, as well as the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom. When Malfoy asked to use the same bedroom he'd had before, Harry shrugged, not really caring, and dumped his knapsack on the bed in the other room before heading back downstairs. 

"What do you want to do first?" Malfoy asked, once they were in the sitting room again. 

"I dunno," Harry said, feeling rather overwhelmed by the task in front of him. It wasn't that Snape owned a huge collection of things, but the idea of packing up or disposing of everything, down to the bare walls and floors, was still daunting. "I guess we could go through his books and potions supplies, see what Hogwarts might be able to use." He looked around the room again. "I'm not sure the rest will matter too much."

"Sounds like a reasonable place to start," said Malfoy. "Do you want to go through items together or divide and conquer?"

"Divide and conquer," Harry responded promptly. Despite having a new appreciation for Snape's bravery and devotion, he still felt extremely uncomfortable at the idea of going through his personal items; the sooner they could finish and leave, the better.

"He kept his potions ingredients in the cupboard under the stairs," Malfoy said, heading in that direction. "I'll start there."

 _At least he wasn't keeping a nephew under there,_ Harry thought, as he headed over to one of the heavily laden bookshelves and began pulling down tomes.

/ \ / \ / \

By dinner that evening, Harry had finished sorting through two of the bookcases and Malfoy had neatly stacked Snape's potions ingredients on the kitchen table, leaving them to eat in the gloomy sitting room. As they ate, Harry tentatively asked Malfoy a few questions about his likes and dislikes, his hobbies and hopes and any other subject he could think of that wouldn't be considered too pushy. Malfoy answered calmly, although not always thoroughly, leaving Harry to wonder what he might still be hiding.

The next morning Malfoy shrank down the potions items and packed them into a cauldron he'd found, before joining Harry at the bookcases. They argued over which books should be taken to Hogwarts and what should be done with the remaining items, although without any real rancour. It turned out Snape had been a voracious reader and owned an extensive collection of what Malfoy assured Harry was classic wizarding literature; however, it wasn't as if they could donate those to the local charity shop, not with all the magical references. In the end, they decided to bring it all back to Hogwarts and let the staff pick over any non-academic books for their own personal enjoyment. Harry hoped that Madam Pince would take any leftovers or that she, at least, would know what to do with any unclaimed items because he was out of ideas at that point.

Working together made the job go much more quickly, especially given Malfoy's surprisingly extensive knowledge of wizarding books; by the time they washed the dust off themselves and collapsed into bed that night, Snape's shelves were bare and all the books had been shrunk down to fit neatly into a small discarded box Harry had scavenged off the pavement across the street.

The third day, however, posed a different challenge; now that the original task was completed, it was time to start going through Snape's personal items. 

"I'll start in my bedroom if you want to start in yours?" Harry suggested, sighing.

"Fair enough," Malfoy said, shrugging. "Are we looking for anything in particular?"

"Well, I thought Snape probably hid an enormous cache of diamonds up here," Harry said, rolling his eyes a little.

Malfoy just gave him a _look_. 

"Fine," Harry conceded with another sigh. "The truth is, I doubt we'll find anything actually important. I guess the furnishings probably _could_ go to the charity shop as long as we make sure they haven't been charmed, and… I dunno, maybe his robes could go to the second-hand shop in Diagon Alley?"

"And the rest?"

"Hell if I know," Harry said, feeling a little irritated. "You're welcome to make some suggestions."

But Malfoy just shrugged again. "I suppose it depends on what we find," he said. "See you at lunch?" he added, as he disappeared into the room where he'd been sleeping.

Harry went into his room – Snape's room – and looked around. Unlike Sirius's bedroom, there was little in the way of decoration or, indeed, any evidence of personality in here. There were no photographs, no posters or Slytherin banners, nothing but the tired, utilitarian bed, dresser and wardrobe, as well as a small nightstand next to the bed. 

He started by gathering Snape's black robes from the wardrobe and laying them on the bed. Next, he pulled open the dresser drawers and, reluctantly, removed all of Snape's underthings, tossing them in the garbage as hastily as possible. He couldn't imagine anyone would want second-hand greying Y-fronts, anyway. 

To his surprise, Harry also found some neatly-pressed trousers and a few worn but comfortable-looking jumpers in the lower drawers. Who knew that Snape had owned Muggle clothing? He supposed he'd been raised in Muggle clothing, living where he did; perhaps even as an adult he had actually enjoyed getting out of his billowing batlike robes when he relaxed at home alone. Harry wondered whether the Dark Lord had ever known about that.

Pleased with his progress so far, Harry turned next to the nightstand, which had a small drawer in it. But when he pulled it open, ice shot through his veins, freezing him in place, his hand seemingly glued to the knob. The second half of his mother's letter, the one he'd seen in Snape's memory, and the torn half of the photograph were both in here – exactly what he'd been dreading. Not only that, but there was quite a large pile of correspondence in his mother's handwriting, not just the torn page Snape had taken from Sirius's house. The other letters had all been neatly bound together with string; only the stolen note was kept separate.

With a shaking hand, Harry reached in, pulled out the packet of letters and undid the string. The letter on top seemed to be the most recent, so he started with the one on the bottom. It was dated the summer of 1972 – the first summer they had spent at home after their first year at Hogwarts.

> Dearest Sev, it began.
> 
> I hope you are doing all right – I haven't seen you at the playground or in town for several days. I'd ring, but the things you've told me about your dad make me nervous, since he's the one who would probably answer. It seemed like a letter would be safest.
> 
> It's so strange to be back at home again, isn't it? I'm really glad to see Mum and Dad. Tuney has been rather cold, but I still missed her at school and am glad to see her again, too. But it's funny to have to go back to doing things without magic. I feel strange without my wand in my pocket, like I've forgotten something important. I know the summer will go quickly and we'll be back at school again before we know it. At least you live in a house where someone can do magic. I worry a little that I'll have forgotten everything by the time September comes. Maybe I should make a point to review my spellbooks a little over the summer, just in case. You're so good at everything, Sev, I know you wouldn't have any troubles, even if your mum weren't a witch.
> 
> Nothing much really to say, honestly – I just missed my best friend, so writing you seemed like the best way to pretend we were together and having fun. Write back if you can. I do love getting letters!
> 
> Love,  
>  Lily

Harry realised he had sat down on the bed – squashing Snape's robes in the process – without knowing how he'd got there. He read the letter again, savouring each word, picturing his mum as he'd seen her in Snape's memories – young, vibrant, her red hair waving gently in the breeze as she had sat and chatted with Snape. It was still so odd to think they'd once been best friends, like he, Ron and Hermione were. How would he have felt had Hermione chosen to follow the Dark Lord, and he'd felt it necessary to break their bond of friendship? Or worse, what if he'd been in love with Hermione but had made choices that caused her to stop talking to _him_? What if he'd caused her death? He'd thought about it before, ever since he'd seen Snape's memories, but, somehow, having Lily's letters in his hand, seeing that she'd once felt the same about Snape as he did about his closest friends, made it seem more real. Just as he'd felt after reading the torn letter in Sirius's room, seeing this glimpse of Lily made _her_ more real, as well. It was one thing to hear a few scattered stories from those who knew her in her youth, and another to see the words and thoughts that were in her head, to have some idea of what she was truly like. It tore at his chest like a physical pain, and yet, he couldn't stop staring at the sheet of parchment he held.

Harry gathered up the rest of the letters, thinking he might read more of them once he was in bed tonight, when something in the drawer caught his eye. There was a glint of metal in the candlelight and, as he reached in again, he saw it was a neckchain. It was delicately made – so delicate, in fact, that the chain had broken mid-link – and looked as if it had once been silver. Age had left a thick layer of tarnish, which could only be expected, but there was more to it than that; some sections of chain looked almost burned, rather than merely oxidised.

When Harry realised what he was holding, he nearly dropped it. Given what else Snape had kept in this drawer, this necklace could have belonged only to Lily, and given the damage – the broken links, the scorch marks – there was no doubt in Harry's mind what had happened. 

"Potter?"

Harry jumped at Malfoy's voice; he hadn't heard him come in. "What is it?" he said, feeling mildly annoyed at the interruption. True, he'd wanted some company just so he wouldn't have to face his mother's letter alone, but now that he'd found so much more, he felt oddly private about it. His hands had closed around the chain to protect it from prying eyes, and it was hard to focus on the boy standing in front of him.

"Nothing, really – just seeing what you were up to." Malfoy flopped on the floor next to Harry's legs, leaning back against the edge of the bed. "Been going through his parents' things, as well as whatever crap Wormtail left behind. That stuff is even older and dustier than the rest of the house. " He waved a hand in front of his face for emphasis. 

Harry did notice a lot of dust scattered in Malfoy's fine blond hair and caught on multiple places of his clothing. He reached out a hand to brush it off.

"What'd you find?" Malfoy asked, nodding at a bit of chain protruding from Harry's other hand.

"It's… nothing," Harry said.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Potter."

Harry sighed. "You won't understand."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Try me."

Reluctantly, Harry opened his hand, showing the damaged neckchain.

"An old necklace? _That's_ what you were hiding?"

"I told you you wouldn't understand," Harry said, scowling.

"So, explain, then. Why was this so important to Snape – and to you?"

"Snape was in love with my mother," Harry began slowly, keeping his eyes glued to the blackened chain in his hands. "This… I think she was wearing this necklace the night she died. It must've gotten damaged when the killing curse rebounded and destroyed that part of the house. She was in the room with me when she died, see?" Harry's hands clenched convulsively. "Snape must've sifted through the wreckage afterwards, looking for anything he could keep as a memento."

" _Professor Snape was in love with your mother?_ " There was no mistaking the incredulity in Malfoy's voice.

"Yes, he was," Harry said defiantly, finally looking Malfoy in the face. "And not ONE WORD about her being a Mudblood, all right?"

Malfoy put his hands up, placatingly. "I wasn't going to."

"Well," said Harry, still feeling a little sullen, "once upon a time, you would have."

"Yes," Malfoy said simply. "That's true. But not now." He looked at Harry curiously. "How did you know all this, anyway?"

"I was there when Snape died," Harry said. "He… he gave me some of his memories of her before he did." He looked down again at the chain in his hands. "They'd been best friends once – they'd both grown up here, and Snape was the one who'd told her she was a witch. But she didn't like that he became a Death Eater, and stopped talking to him when they were teenagers. He never stopped loving her, though, not even after her death. It practically destroyed him when she died." He paused, wondering if he should say more, then decided against it. Perhaps he'd already said too much. 

He felt a sudden warmth on his knee and looked up from his hands, surprised. Malfoy's pale, slim fingers were resting on his denim-clad leg; their owner was now looking up at him steadily from his position on the floor. "I'm sorry," he said. Harry had a feeling there was more behind the words than just expressing condolences for his late mother, but he was too emotionally wrung out to make further sense of it. All he knew was that it had been awhile since he had been touched by anyone, and that Malfoy's hand was surprisingly comforting there on his leg. And he _had_ wanted company, in case he discovered just this very thing.

"Thanks." It was all he could think of to say just then. Was this Malfoy's way of paying Harry back for brushing dust off of him? He never gave these little gestures any thought with Ron or Hermione, but the history with Malfoy was entirely different.

Malfoy took the problem out of his hands, however, by removing his hand and pushing himself to his feet. "It's nearly lunchtime," he said. "When we walked here the other day, I saw there's still a curry takeaway down the street," he added, looking over his shoulder at Harry as he walked toward the door. "It's run by a wizarding family so they take our money as well as Muggle money. Are you interested?"

"Er, all right," said Harry, gingerly setting the necklace down on the nightstand so he could dig in his jeans for some coins. "Get me some butter chicken, would you?"

/ \ / \ / \

At dinner that night, Harry was pensive. He'd read a few more of Lily's letters and was mulling them over, mulling over that whole complicated relationship. Having Malfoy around as a distraction actually _had_ helped, and he was no longer regretting his spontaneous decision to drag him along. Still, it wasn't exactly light reading.

"You're thinking about your mother, aren't you?" Malfoy broke into his thoughts.

"Sort of." Harry pushed his dinner – leftovers from lunch – around with his fork, trying to order his thoughts into words that might make sense. "I'm not thinking of her so much, not exactly," he said slowly. "It's more like… Snape made some choices that ruined his chances with her – and maybe she would never have liked him that way anyway. But he made those choices, and she left, and he never got over it. You know how he treated me at school," he added. "It was because I look almost exactly like my dad, a man Snape hated – but then I have my mum's eyes, and he probably thought about his regrets every time he saw me."

"I thought it was just because he didn't like your fame," Malfoy said. 

"Maybe that, too," Harry said. "But I know it had a lot to do with how I looked and who my parents were. He had so much bitterness and… I just don't want to end up like him. Angry and alone."

"Don't you have a girlfriend?"

Harry looked up into Malfoy's face; silver eyes glittered at him in the candlelight across the narrow table. "We're not really together right now," he admitted. 

"What happened? I thought you were tight with the Weasel… with the Weasleys," Malfoy said. For some reason, he had relaxed a little, his expression less tense.

Harry fidgeted with his napkin; it was uncomfortable now to think of Ginny. He supposed it was because her brother had died for him, and he felt responsible for her grief. He felt responsible for not having been at Hogwarts last year, leaving her at Alecto and Amycus's tender mercies for months on end. He felt guilty for having gone off to die without saying goodbye. And yet, another part of him felt like he'd said it in his mind and heart that night during his long walk to the forest; how could he go back to her after that? Did he _want_ to go back to her? And if not, why not?

"It's … complicated," he said, knowing it was a copout response. Why was Malfoy pushing so hard? "What about you?" he asked, hoping to deflect the awkward questions by redirecting the conversation.

"What about me?"

"You don't seem to have anyone in your life right now. Does it bother you?"

"Yes," Malfoy said, simply. "I'm pretty sure I know what I want and right now I can't have it. But I don't intend to be like Snape and sit around forever, lonely until I die."

"Oh, well, that's good, then." Harry wanted to ask what it was Malfoy wanted, but he was afraid Malfoy would ask what _he_ wanted, and he didn't know the answer. Appetite gone, he pushed his plate away and stood up. "I'll see you tomorrow, all right?" he said, and then he was gone, up the hidden staircase to his room. Snape's room.

Harry didn't sleep well that night. Malfoy's questions pounded through his brain long after he heard the other boy come up to bed and the house fell silent. What _did_ he want? Why _wasn't_ he with Ginny? In the darkness of his room, he had to admit that she had never indicated, in the aftermath of that final battle, that she held him responsible for Fred's death. It was only he who had clutched the guilt tight to his chest, like armour. Protecting him from what? He had thought that once Voldemort was dead, he and Ginny could pick up where they had left off. But it hadn't turned out like that, and, now that he thought about it, he had felt almost relieved. She had been a bright spot in his past – he couldn't deny that – but he didn't feel like the same person anymore; he supposed she wouldn't be, either. Still, she was strong and pretty and intelligent – what more could he possibly want? 

When he finally dropped off to sleep, he dreamed that someone was holding his hand, their fingers entwined. But, like his initial experience after "dying," the scene was full of fog and he couldn't see whom he was with; he only knew he was content. Harry thought that if he waited long enough, the fog would part as it had in his imaginary King's Cross and he would finally see his companion, but he woke before the moment came. Blearily, he threw on some clothes and stumbled down the stairs to find breakfast.

Malfoy was sitting at the small table, working his way through a piece of toast when Harry arrived. "Harry Potter, the Boy With Bed Head," he intoned, the curve of a smile on his pale lips. 

"Oh, shut it," grumbled Harry as he slid into his chair, but he knew Malfoy was only teasing. Things seemed so different between them now. Maybe that's what saving each others' lives did to a person. Or maybe being scared witless for over a year had finally taken the stuffing out of Malfoy's formerly snide personality.

"I make extra toast for you, and this is the thanks I get?" Malfoy retorted. "Still, it's true," he added, pushing a jam pot closer to Harry. "You look awful."

Harry's knee bumped against Malfoy's as he leaned forward to take two slices from the plate in front of him. "Thanks, and _thanks_ ," he said, raising the toast in salute while simultaneously pulling a face. 

"What, did you accidentally shrink down your hairbrush when you were packing Snape's things yesterday?"

Harry shook his head. "Couldn't sleep," he confessed, spreading jam on a slice and taking a bite. He found himself being careful of his feet; the table was so small, even though he'd sat back down, their legs were nearly touching. Somehow, he hadn't noticed it much before now. 

"There seems to be rather a lot of that going around this morning," said Malfoy. "Sleep deprivation," he added, when Harry looked at him in confusion. He'd been thinking too much about Malfoy's legs. Where they were in relation to his, he amended in his head.

Harry redirected his focus to above-table issues, gazing at Malfoy appraisingly as he chewed his toast. He _looked_ much the same as usual, hair neatly slicked down from the shower, his fine clothes unrumpled. But perhaps he _did_ have faint shadows under his eyes. "You, too?" Harry asked, once he'd swallowed his bite.

"Let's just say it wasn't my most restful night and leave it at that," Malfoy said. There was a note of finality that told Harry he wasn't going to get any better explanation. 

"Same here," said Harry firmly. He did not want to get into discussion of relationships again, real or fictitious. Instead, he finished his toast then dusted the crumbs off his hands. "I was thinking today we could find the local charity shop and tell them we have some furnishings they can pick up and, maybe, if we're lucky, get the rest of the items shrunk down and boxed up." The sooner he was back at Hogwarts and away from Malfoy, the better. The bastard seemed to live to make Harry feel confused about things.

Due to his late night, Harry had slept in a little later than usual, so it wasn't much longer before they were able to walk through the town in search of a charity shop that would likely be open for the day. Malfoy wasn't much help here, having stayed in hiding while previously in Cokeworth; also, growing up Malfoy meant he'd been raised in the country and had likewise never needed a second-hand shop in his life. Not that the Dursleys had ever spent a moment in a second-hand shop, either, Harry knew, but he'd seen them when he'd been dragged along on Aunt Petunia's errands when he was small. 

It took some wandering, during which Harry was astonished to recognize the Railview Hotel from the days when his aunt and uncle had attempted to outrun the Hogwarts owls. He retold the story to Malfoy as they passed, earning an outright chuckle in response. Harry couldn't help but grin, too – it was nice to have these positive exchanges with Malfoy after years of hatred. 

Eventually they did stumble upon a shop supporting a local pet shelter. Harry pulled the door open and approached the counter.

"May I help you?" asked the woman who appeared to be in charge. She had a piercing in her nose, another in her eyebrow, two in her right ear and four in her left; her spiky hair was an unnatural shade of burgundy. 

"Er, yes," Harry said, while trying to ignore Malfoy looking around at the shop, white-blond eyebrows raised. "We're clearing out a, uh, friend's estate and wondered if you would have use for his furniture and such."

"All right," said the woman, sounding bored. "Can you drop it off or do you need our lorry to come 'round and pick it up?"

"The lorry, please," he said. "We haven't a car." Harry could feel Malfoy come up behind him and peer over his shoulder while he spoke. He could practically hear Malfoy's brain processing the woman's outlandish appearance. 

She pulled out a notepad and a pen. "Name?"

"Harry Potter."

The woman was clearly a Muggle; she didn't bat an eye at his name. "Address?"

"It's 49 – no, 47 Spinner's End." Harry was finding it hard to focus with Malfoy hanging over his shoulder. 

"Phone number where we can reach you at?"

"Er…" Harry turned to look over at his companion, who merely shook his head, looking perplexed. "It's, er, been disconnected since the owner died," he said, hoping that sounded like a reasonable explanation.

"D'ye have a mobile?"

"No, neither of us do."

The woman raised an eyebrow sceptically, but made no comment aside from, "Well, let's hope that we don't need to contact you for any reason. Sometimes we've got delays and need to reschedule." She consulted a small calendar on her desk. "Would Thursday do?"

Harry took a moment to mentally tot up the days in his head. If he was correct, today was Monday. He cursed silently – it meant hanging about for three more days, rather than going home this evening. He supposed they could return to Hogwarts and just Apparate back to Cokeworth on Thursday, but it seemed like maybe it would be simpler if they stayed on. 

"All right," the woman said, making some final notes. "We'll see you and your boyfriend on Thursday."

"He's not my boyfriend," Harry said quickly. Just because Malfoy was standing so close his body heat was bleeding through Harry's clothing didn't mean anything – it was ridiculous that she had made that assumption. Almost immediately, he wondered why he cared. Really, why did it matter what she thought? It's not like he was going to see her or anyone else in town after this. And yet it had been almost visceral, the urge to make his point clear.

"Oh, sorry, gents," she said, looking only mildly abashed. "Right, well, we'll see you then. Thank you for donating to Fluffy Tails shelter."

/ \ / \ / \

It was Malfoy's turn to fall quiet as they wended their way back through town to Spinner's End. Harry debated asking for his thoughts, but knew how much he disliked being asked to talk before he was ready, so he kept silent.

"Care to explain all of that?" Malfoy finally asked.

"Which part?" Harry asked, instantly thinking of the woman's mistake and feeling heat rise in his cheeks. Why was he still so wound up about this?

"Any of it." Malfoy waved his hands, encompassing an invisible universe. "Do Muggles usually look like her? Or is she a Metamorphmagus like my cousin was? Do people really need to buy used drinking glasses? Why does their money only go to animals with fluffy tails? Crups deserve love, too."

"Oh," Harry said, relief flooding him. "Well, no – most Muggles look normal. I mean, there's a few that like the piercings and odd hair colours – and, no, she's not a Metamorphmagus. Most look like we do, except that they don't wear robes."

"And the rest?"

"Well, 'Fluffy Tails' just means pets in general, the sort that don't have homes and are –"

"Never mind," Malfoy said, abruptly cutting him off. 

Harry scowled. "You asked."

Malfoy just shook his head, blond locks falling out of their slick style to tumble into his eyes. "It's not what I really wanted to know, anyway."

"So, what _did_ you want to ask?" Harry asked, glancing sideways at Malfoy. They had reached Spinner's End and were just walking the final few steps to Snape's door.

"Not here," Malfoy said, shaking his head again. "Wait until we're inside."

Once they were safely back in Snape's sitting room, Harry cast the usual locking spells, then turned to Malfoy, who was looking agitated. "What's going on?" he asked, concerned.

Malfoy did not immediately answer; he walked over to the window and stared out. "You have no idea how much of the past two years I spent being terrified," he said at last, his voice soft. "Fear for myself, fear for my parents, of shame, of pain, of death." He drew a breath. "I swore if we all survived, I wouldn't let myself live in fear like that again."

"There's nothing wrong with having been afraid," Harry said, walking up to stand next to Malfoy. He remembered the fear he'd seen repeatedly on Malfoy's face, from the tear-streaked visage in the boys' bathroom mirror to the drawn and pinched expression he saw up close when Malfoy had denied recognizing him, saving his life. "I would have been scared, too," Harry said, stoutly. "In fact, I _have_ been, every time I had to face Voldemort."

"But you _acted_ ," Malfoy said. "You fought, even if you were afraid. That's what makes you a Gryffindor, I suppose. All I could do was obey, do anything anyone asked, as long as it kept my family in one piece. Fear ruled me, and I hated that."

"And you're going to tell me now that I should act and not be ruled by fear, so I don't end up bitter and alone like Snape?"

"No," Malfoy said, still staring resolutely out the window. He took a deep breath. "I'm explaining this out loud so _I_ don't end up letting fear make _me_ stuck, alone and bitter like Snape."

Harry furrowed his brow. "And…?" he asked. He still had no idea what had prompted this discussion.

Malfoy took another breath. "Do you remember what that clerk said?"

"Yes," Harry said, feeling heat warm his cheeks again.

"What if I…" But then he stopped. "Fuck it," he said abruptly. "I can't do this. I really am a coward." And with that, he turned and nearly wrenched off the hidden door to the bedroom stairs in his haste to disappear.

Harry stood frozen to the spot, watching the door bang behind Malfoy. What had that all been about? Was it something he'd said? He mentally reviewed the conversation in his head, as much of it as he could remember, anyway. He had tried to be encouraging, not hurtful, but he was still figuring out the New Malfoy, so perhaps he'd missed something. 

After waiting a few minutes, just in case Malfoy came back downstairs, Harry sighed and decided to clear out the bathroom cupboard and the storage closet upstairs, just to have something to do. He hoped the work would distract him from obsessing about the conversation, but, alas, earwax. Instead, he focused on each word, and then gave up and focused instead on his own resolution not to end up with a life of regrets. So far, he'd managed fairly well, not counting the fifty-plus deaths, multiple inconveniences and property damage he'd felt responsible for over the years. If Voldemort hadn't been so keen to get at him, and if so many people hadn't offered to protect him or help him, so much of that could have been avoided. So, yes, he had regrets there, that he hadn't been able to do more to prevent those things.

But aside from that – he'd made up with Ron, he'd made peace with his parents, Sirius and Lupin, he had done what Dumbledore had assigned him, and he'd tried not to be cruel to Ginny, because she absolutely did not deserve that. So, why did he still feel like regret was waiting for him in the wings, ready to pounce if he did not act?

Harry caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. This one must not have been enchanted, because his reflection merely stared back at him, rather than chastising him for his mop of messy black hair, or his wrinkled t-shirt. He paused to study his image, seeing what everyone else saw: that he was the spitting image of his father, except for his eyes. He wasn't completely convinced, however; it seemed like Lily's jawline was shaped more like his, and his earlobes, perhaps, too. Having only seen his parents in pictures and, twice, as not-quite-ghosts, it was hard to be sure. Perhaps he was only imagining it, clinging to the idea that he carried more of his mother with him than just the shape and colour of his eyes, which were currently wide with some unnamed emotion. Hope? Longing? At least it wasn't a hard bitterness. Not yet, anyway.

After a minute or so of mirror gazing, however, Harry turned resolutely away, and left to tackle the upstairs storage closet. He did not see Malfoy for the rest of that day except at dinner, when he appeared after Harry was already halfway through with his plate. But he still seemed pulled in toward himself, speaking little and only in response to direct questions. When Harry tried to find out what was wrong, Malfoy only shook his head and said, "I don't want to talk about it." He disappeared back up to his room as soon as he'd finished eating.

/ \ / \ / \

The next day, Tuesday, was much the same. Harry gathered all the items he planned to donate, except the heavy furniture, by the front door – the lamps, tablecloths, china, etc. The sitting room was small enough that it would have been a job to cram in the beds, wardrobes, tables and other furnishings, so he left them upstairs and figured the lorry drivers could manage the job on their own. At least, he hoped there would be more than one. He couldn't exactly shrink down the furniture in front of Muggles, or have it sitting, shrunken, in the sitting room when they arrived, and he wasn't keen on helping haul things down the hard way.

And all the time he was working, he was thinking of Malfoy. Malfoy, who was still taking refuge in his room except for meals. Malfoy and that stupid slicked-back hairstyle of his. Malfoy and the way his long, pale fingers curled around his wand, the wand that Harry himself had held and used for weeks. The warmth those fingers had imparted to Harry every time they touched him. The way his knowledge seemed to complement Harry's. The surprisingly soothing tenor of Draco's voice, now that it wasn't sneering with every sentence. The way that voice had made him talk and think about uncomfortable subjects. And then there were Draco's silver-grey eyes as they sparkled in the candlelight, pupils dark and wide. 

Harry froze, his hand halfway to the tapestry he had been about to roll up. This was … not how he normally thought of Draco, was it? And, oh shit, when had he started thinking of the other boy as _Draco_ , not Malfoy? Harry's outstretched hand flew up to grip his hair, as if he could keep his brain from exploding by doing so. Was he developing feelings for Draco Malfoy, of all people? It's not like he'd obsessed over Draco beforehand. No – wait. Harry groaned. Yes, he had. He had been obsessing over Draco for _years_ , pretty much since they'd met. He'd always brushed it into the category of "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer" – telling himself that he'd merely wanted to know what the blond Slytherin was up to. But had it been more than that all along? 

Harry told himself it hardly mattered what he'd thought in the past; the point was he seemed to have some serious feelings brewing for Draco _now_. He didn't want to think too much yet about what that meant for his sexuality, except that perhaps it explained why he'd felt almost relieved to break up with Ginny. He would deal with the long-term repercussions of being The Boy Who Liked Other Boys or, at best, The Boy Who Was Bisexual, some other time. 

But what should he _do_? He had no way of knowing which way Draco leaned. He'd been good friends with Pansy Parkinson, but Harry couldn't remember seeing Draco particularly attached to any girl – or boy – in a more romantic fashion. To confess his feelings, only to find out Draco was straight as a wand, might signal the end of their tenuous friendship. It might make dealing with his emotions easier in some ways, but it wouldn't be his first choice. Maybe he should just ignore it and hope it went away once this job was done in two days' time. 

Harry looked around the room he had almost finished dismantling, thinking suddenly of its previous owner. Hadn't he been worried that he'd end up alone, clinging to regret, for the rest of his days? Wouldn't he do nearly anything to avoid that? 

Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry turned and marched over to the hidden panel in the bookshelf, which lead to the bedroom stairs. He wrenched it open, much like Draco had the previous day, and clomped up the steep steps two at a time. 

"Draco Malfoy," he called, banging ungently on the bedroom door. "I know you're in there and I want to talk with you. _Now._ "

There was a moment's pause before he heard feet creaking across the floorboards and the door opened. Draco had forgone his usual slick hairstyle, and the white-blond tendrils fell lazily over his forehead and into his eyes. Harry tamped down the urge to brush them aside. 

"Draco," he said, daringly speaking his given name out loud. "You said you didn't want to be ruled by fear. Find your inner Gryffindor – stop hiding."

Draco shook his head. "It's not that easy, Potter."

"Harry."

Draco looked confused.

"Call me Harry," Harry said. "We're friends now. At least, _I_ think we're friends, or we're starting to be." _And I'd like to be more._ "So call me Harry." 

"All right, Harry," Draco said, slowly, as if tasting the name on his tongue for the first time. "But my answer is the same – it's not that easy."

"To throw your words back at you: 'Try me.'" Harry folded his arms across his chest and tried to look stern.

Draco just looked at him for a long moment before sighing and leaning against the doorjamb. "Fine, Potter… Harry," he amended. "Just remember that you asked for it. And please try not to hex me into next week."

Harry just nodded encouragingly, uncrossing his arms and wishing he, too, had a doorjamb to lean against. 

"I'm gay," Draco said, looking down at his bare feet. 

Harry stared. "That's it? That's the big secret? Who cares about that? It shouldn't matter, should it?"

Draco blinked. "It's not really … accepted among wizards, Potter –"

"Harry."

"– Harry. We exist, of course, but it's not something anyone really admits to, publicly. It's sort of like being a squib in a pureblood family."

"Well, I don't think it's weird," said Harry. "But then, I'm... not really straight, either."

Draco's head snapped up. "What do you mean?"

Harry took a breath. "I recently realised that I like boys. _A_ boy, anyway. One in particular." He held Draco's gaze, watching for his reaction.

"You… do?" Draco seemed to be having trouble breathing. Was that a good or a bad thing? 

"I do," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. He watched the grey eyes widen, watched as they scanned back and forth a miniscule distance, trying to read Harry's face. And that's when it hit him – he had seen this before: at dinner, at breakfast, in the charity shop. Draco had looked at him like this many times. And he, himself, had seen this same expression in his own reflection – one of hope and of longing for something as yet unnamed, but desired all the same.

Harry stepped forward. He was still watching Draco, every move slow and careful, waiting to see if Draco would choose acceptance or hexes. Slowly, slowly, he leaned forward, lips parting slightly, watching Draco's do the same, and then they were too close for vision. Eyes fluttering shut, Harry erased the final distance between them as his lips met Draco's. 

Their first kiss was soft, gentle, still unsure. All Harry's focus was on the feel of Draco's mouth slanted across his and, with a jolt, he remembered the dream he'd had. This, _this_ was whom he had been kissing, and now it felt like coming home. But he wanted to look into Draco's eyes again, just to make absolutely sure he hadn't misunderstood what he'd seen in those silver-grey depths. Harry reluctantly broke the kiss and pulled back slightly, just enough to see Draco's face clearly again. 

Draco was panting a little, a lovely little flush staining his pale cheeks. "You beat me, again, Harry," he whispered. 

Harry frowned. "How so?"

"Yesterday, when the shop clerk thought we were, you know, dating," he began, the flush briefly intensifying, "all I could think of was how much I wished it were true. I wasn't ever going to say anything, but then you pressed me, and I almost had the courage to tell you how I felt. Almost." Draco hung his head for a moment, apparently collecting himself. Then he looked back up at Harry, his gaze penetrating. "I didn't know how you felt, and I couldn't bear being rejected by you yet again."

Harry knew Draco was referring to their second-ever encounter, back on the train when they'd been children – as well as all the rejections Harry had thrown at Draco in all their years at Hogwarts. 

"I thought the same," Harry murmured. "But…" and he looked around at the landing where they stood. "I remembered what happens when you live with regret, and so here I am."

"And so you beat me," Draco confirmed, repeating his earlier statement. "But," he added softly, "I'm glad you did."

This time, their kiss was surer, a confirmation, not a question. Harry wrapped his arms around Draco's slim waist, pulling him closer. Draco responded by sliding a hand through Harry's already-messy hair and deepening the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance into Harry's mouth. Harry eagerly took him in, and then reciprocated the gesture. There was no denying Draco's feelings anymore, not when they were pressing so eagerly against his groin; Harry was sure Draco could feel his own longing in return. There would be plenty of time for that, though, Harry thought as he continued to explore Draco's mouth, the smooth skin under his shirt, the soft moans he made. Voldemort was dead and they had all the time in the world to see where this would go. 

There would be no regrets.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [LiveJournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/105413.html).


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